


Easy Money

by Yavannie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bets & Wagers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Just All The Tropes, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Trope Subversion, Tropes Played Straight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-13 02:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16884132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: Mantle leans in closer. “I’ll bet you anything you’ll go home alone tonight,Jughead. Like every other night.”Jughead stares at him, trying to think of another witty comeback, when he’s suddenly struck by an idea.“Anything? How about fifty bucks?” he says.“What?” says Mantle.“Fifty bucks says I get, I don’t know, a number from someone. Anyone.”Mantle sits back, scowling. “Notanyone,” he says, suddenly hesitant. “It’s gotta be someone hot. A hotgirl.”“In that case I want double,” says Jughead calmly. “A full Benji. You look like you’re good for it.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/gifts).



> An early Christmas gift for my favourite dinosaur in the whole wide world! [Satelliteinasupernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satelliteinasupernova/pseuds/satelliteinasupernova) has not only made [an amazing piece of art](http://yavannie.tumblr.com/post/180868449526/easy-money-a-bughead-collge-au-in-five-parts-for) to illustrate this, but she also helped me straighten my Swenglish - I'm eternally grateful!

“I’m telling you, we _have_ to go.”

Jughead’s shoulder makes an ominous clicking sound as Archie pulls on his arm, but he ignores it and lets his body go limp and heavy and as hard as possible to shift. Unfortunately for Jughead, Archie has all of the determination and physique required for the particular scholarship that got him into the UCC.

Goddamn _jock_.

They’ve known each other for all of six days, and Jughead has already gone through the full range of emotions trying to wrap his head around who exactly his roommate is.

Monday had been all about contempt. With his full ride courtesy of the Centerville Centurions, his phone forever buzzing with notifications and his abs chiseled from whatever stuff Greek demigods were made of, Jughead promptly decided that Archie Andrews was beyond doubt the worst possible roommate the universe could have landed him with.

Jughead had snapped a furtive picture of him doing pushups on the stained carpet between their beds, fully intent on sharing it with Betty accompanied by a salty remark. At the last second he had paused with his thumb hovering over the send button, a chill shooting down his arm as he realized that there was nothing less he wanted than for _Betty_ to know about the existence of Archie Andrews.

When Jughead woke on Tuesday morning, Archie had made breakfast for the both of them. Since winged pigs would be found figure skating in hell sooner than Jughead Jones would turn down a free meal, he had eaten. _Grudgingly_. But with a healthy appetite.

By Wednesday evening, Jughead had been made painfully aware of Archie’s habit of snoozing his alarm at least four times before going on his six-thirty jog, but he had also discovered they shared a love of staying up until past midnight, playing _Uncharted 4_.

On the Thursday, Archie hadn’t so much asked him to come shopping as simply assumed _so hard_ that Jughead had gotten in the car with him before he could think twice about it. When they’d walked out of Aldi with no less than fifteen frozen pizzas, Jughead had begun thinking that, hell, this might actually work.

And then, on the Friday, Jughead had spent exactly two and a half minutes in the company of five of Archie’s teammates, after which he had devoted the rest of the evening to googling room swap ads.

“That’s just how it is,” Betty had said over coffee (or, in her case, a giant mug of chai) in her room the night after. “There’s good and bad things about every single roommate, and by the sound of it, yours isn’t _all_ bad. People are complex, Juggie. At least I hope they are,” she added, throwing a glance at one Miss Lodge who was currently busying herself with arranging her nail polish bottles by color on the bookshelf above her bed.

Now it’s Sunday evening, and Jughead is none the wiser about what to think of Archie. The fact that he’s trying to bodily force him to come drinking with him and his football bros _should_ be speaking against him.

If only he wasn’t so freaking _sincere_ about it.

“It’s the final - day - of welcome - week,” Archie says, his words punctuated by a series of sharp tugs that bring Jughead further and further towards the edge of the bed until he’s forced to make a choice between fighting back or falling down.

“I know it is,” says Jughead, finally yanking his arm free and sitting up. “And I have an eight AM tomorrow.”

“Dude, worst case scenario you can just stay awake until then and go to sleep after. Besides, you owe me.”

“I owe you four bucks for an emergency burger, Archie.”

“You can pay me back in wingmanship.”

At least that's a role that's vaguely familiar to Jughead. On the rare occasions he’d ventured out into the prairie that had been the high school social scene in Riverdale, it was either as some kind of surly chaperone, acting as a flimsy barrier between Betty and unwanted attention, or as the slightly less attractive guy that could make practically anyone seem like a catch.

Not that Archie would ever need _him_ to pick up girls. That much was already evident from the Saturday when he’d come back from Betty's to find a sock on the door.

Thank God for twenty-four-seven libraries with comfortable armchairs, right?

Although he's unsure how exactly Archie managed to convince him, Jughead finds himself in a crowded college bar called Boca Chica half an hour later. The place is all pastels and neon lights, decorated with plastic palm trees and cheap, knock-off 1950’s memorabilia. Clearly they didn’t think to extend the retro vibes to include the music, because some kind of mumble-rap-trap something or other is currently pounding away on the stereo system and doing precisely nothing to brighten Jughead’s mood.

Impossible though it may seem, the evening only gets worse from there. They’re soon joined by three of Archie’s football buddies and Jughead knows one of them by name from two nights ago; Mantle. Reggie Mantle, who’s possibly a captain, possibly just aspires to be one. At least he acts like someone who has another ten gym rats at his beck and call. As he approaches the table, Mantle eyes Jughead with an eager kind of glee that makes Jughead instinctively look away and scan the perimeter for escape routes.

“You brought a date, Andrews?” says Mantle, pulling a chair away from the table next to theirs without asking. He sits down heavily and shoots Jughead a look of cheerful malice. “You’re making the rest of us look bad, man.”

Jughead gives a short, low laugh and starts getting to his feet, mentally already halfway home. He totally gets it now. Brought along to be the butt of everyone’s joke, to be–

“What do you mean?” says Archie coolly, and Jughead freezes, hovering two inches above the seat.

Mantle snickers and motions at Jughead. “I mean…” he says, but when Archie remains stonefaced, Reggie’s hand falls limply on the table. Then he shrugs. “Hey, Clayton, first round’s on you,” he says to one of the other Centurions.

The guy called Clayton turns to Archie and Jughead. “What are you having?” he asks.

“Corona, but hold the lime,” says Archie.

Clayton looks at Jughead, who gingerly sits down again. “Coke,” he says.

“Diet?” Mantle blurts out, clearly unable to contain himself. He grins at his own joke, but no one else laughs.

“Diet, zero, full fat - anything’s fine,” says Jughead.

Mantle raises his eyebrows and sighs, then launches straight into a monologue about some upcoming game, or perhaps practice, detailing tactics and positions until Jughead zones out, letting his eyes dart around the table as the others comment or nod in agreement. Coming here was a mistake, he thinks, wrapping his hand around the glass that Clayton sets down in front of him. He takes a sip, not because he’s thirsty, but because it’s something to do when you’re not a part of the conversation.

As the minutes drag on, Jughead starts wondering how long one is socially obliged to hang around after someone has stood up for you. Ideally, he would already be back in the dorm, enjoying having the room to himself for a few hours, but he feels like he owes it to Archie to stick it out for a little while longer. He leans back in his seat, letting his eyes wander, searching the crowd for someone to make up a backstory for. It’s a favorite pastime of his, and with the abundance of frat bros and obnoxiously loud girls, this place is a goldmine of inspirational material.

Then, miracle of miracles, he spots a familiar, blonde ponytail, and he straightens up in his seat. It takes him a few seconds to confirm, but yes, it’s Betty, sitting at the bar next to her own roommate, Veronica Lodge. His chest suddenly feels ten times lighter, and he starts gulping down his drink, getting ready to ditch the football talk and join them.

“‘Scuse me,” says Archie then, nudging Jughead’s leg with his own. “Just gonna take a leak.”

Jughead stands up, and as Archie squeezes his broad shoulders past him, he starts having second thoughts. It's not like he can sneak off unnoticed, and Betty is going to wonder what he's even doing here in the first place. Does he really want to risk having to introduce her to what is essentially four cream of the crop, peak physique footballers? He sinks back down, contemplating his options all while staring at Betty’s back, exposed as it is by a frankly offensively well-fitting halter neck dress.

“So,” says Mantle loudly, making Jughead snap his head around to face him. Mantle gives him a lopsided smile. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

This time, the third guy - Moose - snickers along with him. Clayton is less impressed.

“Leave him alone,” he says. “He’s probably out here doing the same thing as everyone else.”

“Looking to get laid,” Moose clarifies unhelpfully.

“I’m guessing that would be a first?” says Mantle, looking at Jughead.

“Actually, they pay guys like me to raise the average IQ in the room to keep it from dipping below criminally low,” Jughead snaps.

Mantle’s grin grows wider. “She speaks,” he says. “Bet you’re still a virgin though.”

“Wow, seventh grade called and asked for its burn back,” Jughead mutters.

Mantle ignores that, leaning in closer. “I’ll bet you anything you’ll go home alone tonight, _Jughead_. Like every other night.”

Jughead stares at him, trying to think of another witty comeback, when he’s suddenly struck by an idea.

“Anything? How about fifty bucks?” he says.

“What?” says Mantle.

“Fifty bucks says I get, I don’t know, a number from someone. Anyone.”

Mantle sits back, scowling. “Not _anyone_ ,” he says, suddenly hesitant. “It’s gotta be someone hot. A hot _girl_.”

“In that case I want double,” says Jughead calmly. “A full Benji. You look like you’re good for it.”

“Deal,” says Moose, earning himself an angry glare from Mantle, who is clearly starting to have second thoughts.

“Deal,” says Jughead. “Wish me luck, bro,” he adds to no one in particular and gets up to make his way towards the bar.

Betty is watching politely as Veronica chats to a bartender when Jughead gets there. He clears his throat loudly. When she doesn’t react, he says:

“Excuse me miss, but are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

She swivels on the barstool to face him, and her face goes from mildly annoyed to pleasantly surprised in a split second.

“Juggie!” she says, and he can tell she’s already had a couple of drinks from the way she leans in for a one-armed hug. He ducks away from it smoothly, making her frown.

“What are you–” she starts.

“Shut up and pretend like you don’t know me for a minute,” he says quickly, trying to lean against the bar as casually as possible.

Betty’s frown deepens, and she glances behind him. “Why, what’s going on?” Then, completely disregarding what Jughead just said, she turns to Veronica and pokes her shoulder. “Look, Jughead’s here!”

Veronica looks his way and acknowledges his presence with a confused stare before turning her attention back to the bartender.

“Focus, Betty,” says Jughead. “I’m trying to make us a quick buck here.”

“What? How?”

Jughead can practically feel Mantle’s eyes on him. It’s making his skin crawl, but he forces himself to ignore it and gets his phone out.

“See the three Centurions in the booth over by the wall? They just bet me a hundred dollars that I couldn’t get a number from a quote unquote ‘hot girl’, so naturally we’re now going to pretend my amazing pickup skills are working wonders while in actual fact I’m Venmoing you half of it, okay?”

This catches Veronica's attention.

“A _bet_?” she says with a scoff. “In what sexist nineties romcom universe are you guys living?”

Betty waves her away. “Did your roommate put you up to this?” she asks, clearly concerned.

“Nah, Archie’s alright,” says Jughead. “His jock friends decided to lay into the weirdo when he wasn’t looking, though. I guess it’s hardwired since middle school or something.”

“Assholes,” says Betty, eyeing them over his shoulder, her jaw set. “ _I_ bet you could get a number from just about anyone here.”

“Well…” says Veronica doubtfully and sips at her drink. Then she suddenty snorts into it when Betty kicks her foot sharply.

“I’ll settle for yours tonight,” says Jughead to Betty with a wry smile, opening the Venmo app on his phone.

“You don’t have to prove anything to them,” says Betty, reaching out to close her hand around his wrist. “Just stay here and hang out with us instead.”

Jughead looks up at her. He can tell she’s seething with that special brand of Betty Cooper indignation that flares hot whenever she sees something wrong and unjust. It’s usually an admirable quality, but it’s hard to fully appreciate it right now, when it highlights Jughead as the easy target he is.

“We’ve all got bills to pay,” he says evenly.

He reaches behind the bar quickly, grabs a paper napkin from a stack and then slides it her way. With a sigh, Betty reaches into her purse and fishes a pencil out, and while she writes down her number in her usual neat, round hand, Jughead finalizes the transaction.

“Hold your horses,” says Veronica, snatching the napkin from Betty just as she’s about to hand it to Jughead. “That’s Archie?” she asks, nodding at someone behind Jughead.

He turns around, and sure enough, Archie is just scooting over to his seat next to Mantle.

“Yeah,” he says. “Why?”

“Why not sweeten the deal with something a little more exclusive...” Veronica says slowly while scribbling something at the napkin. “For the redhead’s eyes only,” she says, handing the napkin to Jughead with a flourish. It now has a second number added to it.

“Veronica!” Betty hisses.

“What? Strike while the iron is hot, Betty. Or when the roommate is, as it were.”

“Thanks for this, Betts,” says Jughead, pushing off the bar and making to leave.

“Wait!” says Betty. “Study date tomorrow?”

The _date_ sends a little shock through him, even though he knows that _study_ is the operative word here.

“After _one_ day of classes?” he says, and then mentally kicks himself for not just agreeing immediately.

“It’s never too early to get on top of the syllabus,” she says sagely.

“I’ll text you,” says Jughead. Then he grins. “Now that I have your number and everything,” he adds, waving her goodbye with the napkin.

The look on Reggie Mantle’s face is worth far more than the crisp hundred-dollar bill he throws down on the table on Jughead’s return.

“Way to go, kid,” says Clayton, slapping a hand down on his shoulder.

“Let me see that,” Mantle growls, trying to grab the flimsy paper square from Jughead, who just manages to pull it out of reach.

With a disapproving click of the tongue, Jughead slides the napkin Archie’s way.

“The bottom one’s for you,” he says to Archie, tapping the number with a finger.

“ _Veronica_ ,” Archie reads, then cranes his neck to look over at the bar. “Is that the blonde or the brunette?”

For some reason, the question throws Jughead off balance, because there’s no answer that he can give that won’t leave a sour taste in his mouth. Sure, it was a neat little plan, and both Betty and Veronica are fully aware of what he’s doing. He’s doing it to screw with Mantle, because he was being predictably vile, and yet here he is, getting wrapped up in eagerly divvying up girls between himself and his roommate like it’s a completely normal activity. The others - Mantle, Moose and Clayton - are watching him expectantly, all of them waiting to find out what color hair Archie might expect to see spread across his spare pillow tomorrow morning.

“Brunette,” he says in a short voice. Then he adjusts his beanie and pats his pockets to make sure he’s got everything before turning to Archie. “Like I said, I’ve got an eight AM tomorrow, so...”

With a sardonic salute, he leaves the four footballers to their own devices and pushes his way through the crowds toward the exit.

Once outside, the night breeze feels good against his skin, cooling him off and clearing his thoughts as he starts on the short walk back to the campus. He fishes his headphones out and plugs them in, letting an Arctic Monkeys song cleanse his aural palette. All in all, it hasn’t been a complete waste of time. He’s fifty bucks richer, he’s seeing Betty tomorrow, and–

His train of thought is interrupted by a shove in the back, so forceful and unexpected that it sends him flying across the sidewalk to a rough landing, palms scraping against the coarse flagstones. Heart pounding, Jughead scrambles up, ready to make a run for it, but the glance he throws across his shoulder makes him pause.

“Mantle?” he asks incredulously.

Reggie Mantle takes a step towards Jughead, straightening the collar of his letterman jacket. He’s close enough that Jughead can smell the alcohol on his breath, and a chill shoots through his stomach in response.

“Your little act may have had the others convinced, but you’re not fooling _me_ ,” Mantle says, giving Jughead another rough shove in the chest.

“What the hell’s your problem?” says Jughead, dancing away from Mantle before he can push him again.

This time, he settles for pointing an angry finger at Jughead. “There’s no way that girl gave you her number voluntarily. I think you pulled a fast one.”

It’s true. There’s no denying it. Pulling a fast one was exactly what Jughead did, and somehow, Mantle managed to figure it out.

“Look–” Jughead begins.

“She didn’t give it to _you_ ,” Mantle says between clenched teeth. “I saw her looking at us. The brunette gave hers to Andrews, so logically, the blonde thought you were asking on _my_ behalf.”

Jughead blinks in surprise. “What,” he says stupidly.

“You owe me a hundred bucks and a phone number, beanie boy,” Mantle hisses.

And just like that, some kind of flip switches in Jughead’s brain, turning his fight-or-flight response firmly towards the former.

“I don’t even have her number,” he says, balling his hands into fists.

While that’s another bold-faced lie, it’s also true that he left the napkin with Archie, and Mantle seems to realize this even as he grabs the front of Jughead’s t-shirt.

“The money then,” he says gruffly.

Seeing his chance, Jughead aims a punch at Reggie’s ribs, but the blow is too hesitant, too weak, and comes from a strange angle; it barely makes Mantle flinch. Instead, he gives Jughead an unimpressed look and raises his own fist threateningly.

“The money,” he repeats.

What's worth more? Your dignity, intact? Your face in one piece? The money you scammed off a jock? In the end, Jughead walks away with none of it, his palms still stinging from the fall and a bruise forming on his jaw.

He wants to call Betty and tell her what happened, but some small part of worries she'll think him weak and pathetic, just like Mantle did.

When his phone bleeps later, as he's brushing his teeth, he's more relieved than he really ought to be that it's a text from Betty, and that she's probably back in her dorm and not out with Archie and his pals.

 

11.53 PM  
What happened to I’ll text you?? A girl gives you her number and you’re playing hard to get, smdh

 

Even though he’s used to Betty’s drunk texting by now, he can’t help the subtle nervous tingle in his chest. He really ought to know better, because Betty’s like this when she’s had a couple of drinks. It doesn’t mean anything, and he’s pretty sure she’s like this with everyone, and yet… He hesitates, composing a reply in his head before he starts typing it out.

 

11.54 PM  
3-day rule anyone?

 

11.54 PM  
Lame

 

11.54 PM  
What time tomorrow?

 

11.55 PM  
I finish at 4.

 

11.55 PM  
Same

 

11.55 PM  
It's a date then <3

 

There it is again. _Date_. And even though he ought to know better, even though they've been friends for over ten years now without either of them showing any interest in taking things further than that, he goes to bed with something bubbling anxiously inside of him.

_Something_.

Something like hope, but it's the kind of hope that grates at the walls of your heart until it feels more like fear than anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you _serious_?”

Betty reaches up for Jughead's face, and although he can’t help but flinch a little he holds still long enough for her to gently prod the swollen bruise on his cheek. She clicks her tongue and then turns those sad, green eyes of hers on his.

There it is again - pity mingled with rage, and Jughead wants none of it. He leans away, suddenly uncomfortable.

Ever since middle school she’s looked out for him. Anything from bringing double sandwiches on packed lunch days, to shutting down snide comments about his too-short jeans, to making sure he was never left without a lab partner when everyone else had paired off. It goes as far as him suspecting she’s the sole reason why he kept being asked to attend birthday parties long after their classmates were old enough to take care of the invites themselves.

It should be a comforting thought, knowing he has a friend like her, but the truth is that the memories leave a lump of hot shame in his belly. Even with toilet dunkings and being shoved into lockers behind them, the same doubts seem to linger on. The Blossom twins used to refer to him as ‘the charity case’ back in high school. He just hopes he isn’t Betty’s.

Sometimes he wonders what it might have been like if they'd gone their separate ways after graduation day. Would they even have stayed in touch? He’d always imagined her at an Ivy League college and himself staying in Riverdale, working the same graveyard shift at Pop’s as he had as a senior.

But things had changed in that final year. Hal and Alice had divorced; an ugly, drawn-out process that left Betty taking refuge in her books. Jughead had understood perhaps better than anyone, and they had spent many a late afternoon in the library, both equally reluctant to go home earlier than absolutely necessary. That the split between Betty’s parents severely limited her ability to pick and choose between colleges was something that she seemed to take in stride.

“Centerville offers one of the best engineering degrees in the country,” she’d said, the dim light of the banker’s lamp softening her smile. “And the tuition fees are _half_ of Caltech’s. _And_ I can see you on the weekends,” she had added, and Jughead’s heart had soared.

The next week, perhaps in no small part due to his and Betty’s extended revision hours, his scholarship award letter for pursuing a degree in political science had come through the mail. FP had stared at it for a good five or six minutes before speaking up.

“It says here they’ve got you covered for classes and a room,” he’d said, voice gravelly.

“I can get a weekend job–” Jughead had started.

“The hell you will, son. What kind of a father would I be if I couldn’t at least put food on your table?”

 _The kind of father you’ve been for the past four years_ , Jughead had thought bitterly. In any case, he’d saved up some cash from working at Pop’s. Enough to keep him in burgers and ramen for the first few months, if he tightened his belt a little.

“ _It was meant to be,_ ” was the first coherent sentence he’d gotten out of Betty once he made the call. “ _I don’t even have to_ pretend _to be happy about missing out on Caltech anymore_.”

And now they’re here, in the sunny quad, sitting on Betty’s foldable picnic blanket with a box of mini-donuts and two mugs of coffee between them. Jughead’s books are still in his bag, and although Betty has at least made an effort to open hers to what is presumably the appropriate chapter, they’re discarded and forgotten in favor of her careful examination of his tender jaw.

“Have you got any idea who it was?” she asks.

“It was dark,” he says evasively.

“Did you call the police?”

“It was some drunk rando, Betty.”

She shakes her head slowly, clearly disappointed. “You didn’t call the police. You didn’t even call me!” she adds, slapping him lightly on the arm.

“It’s not like I was bleeding to death in the street. I was fine, why ruin your evening too?”

“Veronica and her ginger fling ruined it anyway,” says Betty, rolling her eyes. “I was left with that Reggie. You know, he tried to wheedle my number out of me the _entire_ evening.”

A little shock of dread shoots through him. “Did you give it to him?”

“Of course not! He found various accounts though,” she says darkly.

“So block him,” he suggests.

“I will if he doesn’t behave.”

Jughead doesn’t know what to say to that. Clearly, someone like Reggie Mantle is worth blocking preemptively.

“It’s a bit delicate,” Betty says, as if sensing his misgivings. “Veronica kind of hit it off with your roomie, Archie, and since they’re pals…”

But Jughead suddenly remembers Lucas the Linebacker, the senior who took Betty to homecoming when they were just sophomores. He remembers casually flipping through her Biology notes and coming across a list of names with rows of little hearts next to them that had seemed to indicate their respective level of crushworthiness. Most of them had belonged to wearers of letterman jackets. None of them had been ‘Jughead Jones’.

“I guess technically he _is_ your type.” Jughead doesn’t mean to sound resentful. He really doesn’t, but he can hear that edge in his own voice, betraying him.

“He’s not my type,” Betty says calmly. “And I told him as much.”

Her lips twitch in a secret little smile.

“What?” he asks.

“I told him I was already going on a date with you,” says Betty, looking smug.

Jughead’s heart doesn’t skip a beat - it’s suddenly doing double time.

“Which, _duh_ ,” she says, spreading her hands with a little laugh.

“Ha ha,” he drawls, internally kicking himself for jumping to conclusions. He nudges Betty’s copy of _Numerical Methods for Engineers_ with his shoe and adds, “I can see you’re pulling out all the romantic stops.”

But Betty isn’t listening. Instead, she’s staring intently at something behind him.

“Oh my god,” she says, her voice dropping. Her hand fumbles for his arm, but when he makes to turn around, she hisses, “No, don’t look, don’t look! It’s him. It’s _Reggie_. Oh my god!”

Obviously it now feels like an impossible task not to glance back, if ever so briefly, but he manages to keep his eyes trained on Betty.

“I guess that's our cover blown,” he says.

“What? Why?”

“He's going to realize we know each other.”

She doesn't reply immediately, her attention fluttering away across the quad again.

“Not necessarily...” she says. “Okay, he’s _definitely_ coming this way. Quick, kiss me.”

The words register in Jughead’s brain, but whatever action or reaction they’re supposed to trigger simply doesn’t follow. He merely sits there, blinking stupidly at her while trying to process if she’s joking or perhaps speaking in code, or whether he simply misheard her, because–

Betty tuts impatiently. “Come here!”

Quickly, Betty slides a hand around his neck, then leans forward and presses her lips against his.

It’s not a good kiss. Not by any standards. His lips are dry and stiff under her soft, warm mouth, and by the time he finally catches on and follows her lead, she’s already pulling away again.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, avoiding Jughead’s gaze.

She looks utterly mortified, a blush creeping up her face. With the performance he put on, he can’t blame her.

“I, uh–” he starts, pulling nervously at his beanie.

“I should have asked,” she interrupts him, eyes still fixed on some undetermined spot on the picnic blanket.

“No, it’s fine,” he hurries to say. “I was slow on the uptake.” _Why? Why must he always screw these things up?_ He swallows hard. “Is he… What’s he doing now?”

Betty glances up, then pulls a face. “Ugh, he’s just standing over by that picnic table, looking at us.”

Whether it’s the intense want for a real life version of ctrl+z or the urge to spare Betty some embarrassment that does it, Jughead finds himself tentatively reaching for her hand.

“Give him something to look at?” he asks, raising an eyebrow playfully.

She hesitates, and then accepts his outstretched hand with a little smile. He gently runs his thumb over her knuckles, trying to imagine what he’d do if it was a real date. Probably kiss her again, just to show her he’s not completely inept at it. And because he’d want to, if it was a real date. In the end, they just sit there, quietly holding hands, almost but not quite looking at one another.

“Okay, he’s leaving,” says Betty, relaxing visibly.

She doesn’t let go of his hand immediately, and the lingering touch makes Jughead buzz with irrational anticipation. He can feel his palm going clammy, but then he realizes she’s probably just making sure he’s completely gone. Finally he gives in temptation and throws a glance over his shoulder.

Reggie Mantle is almost by the footpath leading to the parking lot, and just as he disappears from view, Betty lets Jughead’s hand go. The feeling of sudden emptiness is strangely disappointing, and he quickly pulls his arm back, pressing his damp palm into the blanket to anchor himself.

“Think we got him fooled?” he asks.

“Let’s hope so,” says Betty lightly, then turns to her book, humming quietly as she flips through the pages.

As Jughead gets his own work out, he can feel the tension draining from his limbs. He opens a book at random and reads the first paragraph he lays his eyes on three times without taking in a single word.

 

* * *

 

“You’re coming to practice, right?”

The words coming out of Archie Andrews’ mouth might as well have been in Greek, that’s how little sense they make to Jughead. He looks up from the game in front of him at his roommate who is currently in a frankly embarrassing state of undress. Embarrassing to Jughead, at least, since it highlights the kind of abdominal definition he as a young man in his prime could technically achieve but unquestionably never will.

“Practice?” he says, hitting pause on the controller.

“Yeah,” says Archie, pulling a t-shirt on.

Jughead gives a confused shrug, and Archie frowns at him before turning to the mirror to give his hair a quick ruffle.

“You talked to…uh, what’s her name… Betty, right?” he says.

The name makes Jughead’s stomach jolt, and for a brief moment he wonders just how much Archie knows. Maybe Veronica told him Jughead has actually known Betty for ages. And if so, will Archie have his back, or will he tell Mantle?

“Yeah, of course,” he says, as confidently as he can muster.

“Great!” says Archie, bundling up his football gear and stuffing into a duffel bag. “I’m heading over to get changed. See you there!”

As soon as the door closes, Jughead throws the controller aside and fumbles for his phone on the desk. He hasn’t talked to Betty since they said a very awkward goodbye in the quad yesterday, and he was going to give it a few days to take that embarrassing edge off, but this development calls for action…

...Action that Betty has already taken, apparently.

Staring down at the screen, he can see he has missed a phone call and three unread texts.

“Shit,” he says under his breath, unlocking the screen and scanning the messages frantically.

 

15.23 PM  
Veronica somehow convinced me to go to football practice with her please send help.

 

15.25 PM  
Pick up?

 

15.42 PM  
Sorry I know you hate football. Talk soon?

 

That last text was sent an hour and a half ago, and Jughead pulls his hand through his hair in frustration. Even though it’s no use now, he turns the volume back on, then stares at the messages again. Making a split second decision, he hits the call button. Betty picks up before it even rings.

_“Hey, Jug. Did you get my texts?”_

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I still had the sound off from class.”

 _“I just heard from Veronica you’re coming after all?”_ She sounds weird, like she’s annoyed or stressed.

“Yep,” says Jughead, trying to make it cheerful, then pulls a face when he hears how insincere it sounds.

 _“Okay, I gotta go,”_ Betty says hurriedly. _“Meet you there?”_

“Yeah, see you Betts.”

He clicks the call away, then tugs his beanie on with a resigned sigh. The music from the paused game filters through to his confused brain, and he gives the TV one last longing look before shutting it off and grabbing his jacket from the bed.

He’s halfway down the block before he realizes he doesn’t even know where the football field is.

 

* * *

 

Betty and Veronica are already up on the bleachers when Jughead finally gets there. The sun has dipped behind the houses but the warmth lingers, and on the field, Archie and the others are dripping with sweat.

When she spots him, Betty gives Jughead a little wave, and he climbs up the rows to where the girls are sitting. It would seem his anxiety about seeing Betty after yesterday was unfounded, because she bounces up and gives him a quick hug.

“Hey Juggie,” she says. “Thanks for coming.”

“The lovebirds are reunited,” says Veronica in a sing-song voice.

Jughead looks questioningly at her as Betty sinks down in her seat again with a sigh.

“What’s going on?” he asks, sitting down next to Betty.

Veronica glares at Betty, who rolls her eyes.

“She’s making me pretend that the two of you are, you know…” Veronica makes a series of vague hand movements that does precisely nothing to clear things up, while Betty buries her face in her hands.

“What, both really bad at sign language?” he asks.

“Sometimes I can’t tell whether you’re compulsively snarky or just actively trying to be an asshole,” says Veronica.

“Ronnie,” Betty groans.

“It’s okay, she’s not wrong,” says Jughead.

“Thank you, Jones.” Veronica tosses her hair over her shoulder with a satisfied smirk. “Anyway, here’s the story. Ever since a certain Reginald Mantle witnessed your little tete-a-tete in the quad, he’s been all over Betty’s insta, deep-liking as far back as junior prom. And now she’s forcing me to stick to this fake-dating story which inevitably will crash and burn as soon as Freckles down there comes over and spots that Riverdale High shrine of hers.”

She's talking about the patchwork of printed photos covering most of the corkboard above Betty's bed that somehow features more pictures of Jughead than he owns himself - not that that's saying a lot.

“I should take that down,” says Betty, then throws Jughead a guilty glance. “Temporarily, of course.”

Jughead shrugs in response, trying his hardest to seem like it’s nothing to do with him, all while fighting down the irrational chills of jealousy shooting through him at the thought of Reggie stalking Betty on Instagram. Thankfully Betty had kept Jughead out of her social media feeds on his request, so at least their secret is still reasonably safe.

He clears his throat and frowns. “So, exactly how long are we keeping this up?”

“Another couple of minutes, at least,” says Veronica and nods towards the field.

There’s Archie and Reggie Mantle now, making their way up the bleachers, hair glistening with sweat and water bottle shower residue. As they get closer, Betty presses herself against Jughead, and after a second’s hesitation he moves his arm to accommodate her.

“You made it!” says Archie cheerfully.

“Of course, Archie,” Veronica purrs, getting to her feet and brushing some dirt off his jersey. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“What’d you think?” he asks.

Veronica blinks. “About…?” Archie’s face falls in disappointment, and then Veronica gasps in realization. “Oh, the game!”

“Well, we’re not technically playing a _game_ …”

“You’re doing _great_ , Archie,” says Veronica, patting his shoulder pad, and Archie breaks into a big grin again.

While Veronica and Archie keep exchanging flirtatious pleasantries, Reggie Mantle is simply standing there, glowering silently at Jughead as though he’s hoping to see through something. Then he finally turns to Betty.

“Hey there, dollface. Come to watch the big boys play?”

“Just keeping Veronica company,” says Betty evasively, leaning even closer to Jughead.

“You do any sports, Jones?” Reggie asks. His gaze lingers on Jughead’s bruised jaw. “Not boxing, that’s for sure.”

At that, Betty frowns suspiciously, but Jughead answers before she can start asking questions.

“Does Wii Sports count?” he says.

“What?” Reggie scoffs.

There’s a sharp whistle from down on the grass, and Archie slaps Reggie on the shoulder, interrupting them. “Come on, Reg, let’s nail that new play.”

“Sure,” says Reggie, smirking. “See you around.” He winks at Betty before following Archie down towards the pitch again.

“That coach sure landed himself some valuable assets this year,” says Veronica with a wistful sigh, eyes lingering on their backsides. Then she gets to her feet and dusts her skirt off. “Well, I for one am _craving_ a Starbucks reserve, especially if I’ll have to pretend to care about football again any time soon. Do you two faux beaus want anything?”

Jughead wouldn’t have minded a hot drink, and with the extra fifty bucks he’d had the other night he wouldn’t have hesitated, but now he just shakes his head politely.

“Two coffees,” says Betty, handing Veronica a ten-dollar bill. “It’s fine,” she adds to Jughead, who’s about to protest.

Once Veronica is gone, Betty relaxes at Jughead’s side with a little sigh of relief. For a second, he considers telling her the truth about what happened on the Sunday, but then she pulls her phone out.

“Do me a favor?” she asks, directing the selfie camera towards them.

“Woah,” says Jughead, automatically throwing his hand up in front of the lens.

Betty lowers her arm again. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “I just thought… Maybe if I put a picture up of the two of us, you know...” She tilts her head meaningly towards the football field.

Reggie might stop stalking her. Well, Jughead can get behind that.

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

“Just a story,” says Betty reassuringly.

She snaps one picture after another, adjusting the phone up and down, but there always seems to be some small detail she’s not satisfied with. To Jughead, she looks good in every single one; with her cheek pressed playfully against his, with her head on his shoulder, smiling or not.

“Look at the camera, not the screen,” she instructs.

“Can you tell I suck at this?” he says with a lopsided smile.

His non-existent social media presence hadn’t been a deliberate choice to begin with - it had been made for him at the age of thirteen when his dad had presented him with his first hand-me-down mobile phone.

“It does what it’s meant to do,” FP had said. “You can text, you can call. What else do you need?”

Half of the time he couldn’t do that either, when the unpaid bills on the fridge outgrew the number of magnets that could hold them.

When he finally got a smartphone and the means to pay for it himself, Jughead’s status as the outspoken anti-establishment weirdo who barely even used Gmail was so cemented that he saw no choice but to continue on his chosen path.

“That’s the one,” says Betty happily, beaming down at what must be the twenty-fifth attempt.

Predictably, she looks gorgeous, and Jughead groans inwardly at his own dorky smile.

“Just going to weed some of these out…” she goes on, expertly flipping through the camera roll to delete the failed attempts. She pauses and holds the phone up. “That’s a good one of you.”

He looks at the picture, trying to see what she sees, but all he can focus on is the hot sensation in his belly; her words, if ever so casually spoken, a glowing knife of nerves, right to his gut. “Thanks,” he manages stupidly.

She flips past the picture, then deletes another ten or so in rapid succession. When she opens the Instagram app to put the story up, he can’t help but glance at her previous uploads, and he wonders whether college might be an opportunity to jump on that train he missed back in eighth grade.

“Maybe I should get an account,” he says, thinking out loud.

Betty turns to look at him as though he’s just told her she’s won a lifetime supply of chocolate.

“Oh my god, _yes_ , you totally should,” she says, her eyes practically shining. Then she starts pawing at his pocket. “Here, give me your phone, I’ll help set it up.”

He doesn’t feel ready to relinquish control of his phone entirely, but he definitely doesn’t mind when she nestles close again, reaching over to click through the various options when she gets impatient with him. Much to Jughead’s annoyance, Veronica soon turns up with their coffees. She hands them their cups with a strange little look, but in a completely unexpected turn of events she simply sits down and watches the football.

“Now add me,” Betty says, pointing at the search icon while gently pressing the paper mug against her cheek for warmth.

“You’re cold,” Jughead observes, only now realizing how quickly the temperature dropped once the sun set properly.

“No one to blame but myself,” says Betty, pulling at her cropped sweater.

“Here,” says Jughead, shrugging out of his jacket.

It’s what he wants to do - it’s the polite thing to do - but it feels like a cheesy, opportunistic move, handing it to her. But seeing her gratefully wrap it around herself is like something out of a movie, and his chest swells anxiously in response.

“What about you?” she asks.

“Time to see if this still fits,” he says jokingly, loosening the sleeves of the plaid shirt he’s got tied around his waist.

Next to them, Veronica rolls her eyes and mutters something inaudible.

“What’s that Ronnie?” Betty asks.

“Archie’s on a break again,” says Veronica, getting to her feet. “I think I’ll head on down. I can feel a toothache coming on.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jughead asks once she’s out of earshot.

“Can’t believe she talked me into watching football practice,” says Betty, ignoring the question.

“Can’t believe you talked _me_ into watching football practice.”

She smiles at that. “Do you want to leave?”

Any other day, in any other company, the answer would have been a no brainer. Any other day he wouldn't even have _been_ here. Now he hesitates. But Betty gets to her feet impatiently, and he has no choice but to follow.

“Yeah, I have some washing to do,” he says, standing up as well. It _could_ be true - he hasn't checked the status of the laundry hamper for a few days.

Betty’s smile stiffens suddenly, and as they make their way down towards the exit, Jughead gets an overwhelming sense that he’s done something wrong. Before they reach the gate where they’ll have to part ways, he nudges her arm lightly.

“You okay?” he asks.

She slows her steps and turns towards him. “Of course,” she says cheerfully. Then she starts as though she’s forgotten something. “Wait, you need this back,” she says, patting the jacket distractedly.

“No, it’s fine, keep it until tomorrow.”

Betty pauses, the sherpa halfway down her shoulders. “Sure?”

“What kind of date asks for his jacket back?” he says, pulling it back up by the lapels.

She smiles again, and this time it’s sincere. Then she glances towards the football field and huffs in annoyance.

“Seriously, what’s his problem?” she says.

He follows her gaze, landing on Reggie Mantle who’s standing some way away, watching them intently.

Jughead knows exactly what the problem is. The problem is Betty and him, a pairing so glaringly improbable that not even Instagram selfies and clothes sharing can budge a moron with a mission. Whether it’s a genuine interest in Betty or a general interest in being a jerk, the look on Reggie’s face is one that makes it obvious he’s not prepared to back off.

“I think he suspects something,” he says.

“Maybe,” Betty concedes. “But either way you’d think he’d be able to take a hint, right?”

“He’s a footballer, Betts. You’ll have to make your position abundantly clear. Using small words.”

That makes her laugh, and the sound fills him with stupid giddiness, like soda bubbling up around his heart. In the hesitant pause that follows he wonders whether they’re still pretending, and if so, what kind of goodbye would be appropriate. A hug? Another awkward kiss? The thought makes his palms damp again.

“See you tomorrow?” Betty asks, breaking the silence.

“Sure, yeah.”

When she makes no move to leave, Jughead gathers all the courage he can and steps closer. Just as he decides that a hug is the safest bet, Betty turns her face up expectantly, and the end result is that he overshoots, pressing a strange little kiss to her cheek.

“Sorry–” he begins.

“I didn’t–” she says at the same time, and they fall silent again.

She’s not pulling away though, and something inside Jughead screams at him that this is a second chance, and second chances don’t come around a third time, and before he can change his mind, he’s kissing her full on the lips.

Betty is clearly more adaptable than him, because there’s only the slightest delay before her mouth softens against his.

This time it’s good. So good, in fact, that he’s reluctant to break the kiss when it reaches what would have been a natural conclusion. And without knowing exactly how it happens, he finds himself kissing her in earnest, lips parted and her tongue flitting carefully against his.

When they finally break apart, it’s with confused embarrassment. Jughead can feel a furious blush creeping up his neck, and Betty reaches back to straighten her ponytail just a little too vigorously.

“Think we convinced him?” Jughead quips.

She snorts softly. “See you tomorrow, Juggie.”

If the evening is chilly on his way back to the dorm, Jughead doesn’t notice, because the lump of nerves in his belly glows hot enough to keep him warm even without his jacket.

 

* * *

 

Jughead is still alone in the room he shares with Archie, trying his best to get some reading done, when the text arrives.  

 

11.48PM  
Are you still up?

 

A surge of anxiety makes him sit up on the bed, and the reply he types out is as idiotic as it is impulsive.

 

11.48PM  
I am now.

 

He regrets it as soon as he hits send, but apparently she’s not so easily offended because her next message arrives within seconds.

 

11.48PM  
Can I come over?

 

He can’t help but grin to himself as he types out a _sure_.

Whether or not the kiss convinced Reggie Mantle remains to be seen - as for Jughead Jones, there can be no doubt.


	3. Chapter 3

For the duration of the fifteen minutes it takes Betty to arrive, Jughead is a tornado of inefficiency. He darts from corner to corner of the small space of the room he shares with Archie, picking up a stray sock here, gathering up half-empty glasses there, changing his t-shirt, and brushing his teeth for a few seconds. Anything that belongs to Archie gets unceremoniously kicked under Archie’s bed. He turns the desk light on and off at least four times before reaching the half-baked conclusion that even though his frantic efforts to tidy have made little to no difference, a dimly lit room at least _looks_ cleaner.

“It’s dark in here,” is the first thing Betty says when she steps over the threshold. She's wearing his jacket, which is completely logical considering that she's bringing it back to him, but the sight of it somehow makes Jughead weak at the knees.

“Are you sure you weren’t sleeping?” Betty asks.

“No, just trying to study and failing.” He motions at the books on the bed and the laptop on his pillow, where an episode of _Mr. Robot_ is paused. His eyes fall on the tote bag on her shoulder that looks like it’s holding more than just a spare jacket. “So, what’s up?” he asks.

“Well, Veronica brought Archie back, so…” she trails off. “I guess he didn’t text you after all?”

“No-o,” says Jughead. He gets his phone out to make sure, but this time there aren’t any missed messages.

Betty sighs. “He said I could take his bed.”

“Oh!” says Jughead.

He realizes it sounds not only like he’s surprised, but _pleasantly_ surprised. Which he is. The memory of the kiss lingers like warm honey on his lips, and he sends a silent thank you to Archie Andrews and his rampant libido.

Betty clears her throat. “I think he thought he was doing us, you know, a _favor_ ,” she says delicately, then gives a nervous little laugh.

“Ha, yeah,” Jughead manages, immediately plummeting back to wallowing in uncertainty.

Like the emotional seismograph she is, Betty picks right up on the shift in mood. “I’m sorry, Jug,” she groans. “I swear I’ll straighten this whole mess out tomorrow. I didn’t realize it was going to get so _involved_.”

“Hey, technically I started it,” he says, taking her bag while she slips out of his jacket. “And you're always welcome here, Betts. I bet you snore less than Archie, too.”

He moves the laptop to the desk chair while Betty settles on the bed, and as the minutes pass things get less and less weird as they slip into a familiar routine of half-watching Netflix and drifting in and out of smalltalk.

Even though it’s late - way too late for anything when you’re supposedly getting up at seven - Jughead is reluctant to suggest they turn in for the night, and when the credits roll on the episode they’re watching he ignores it, pretending like he doesn’t notice the next one start.

Betty fidgets a little, and for a moment he thinks she definitely noticed, but then she reaches over to grab his pillow and wriggles down on the bed until she’s lying on her side.

“No, don’t be silly,” she says when he shifts to give her more room.

Instead, she puts the pillow in his lap and makes herself comfortable using his hip as a headrest.

This is, all things considered, not out of the ordinary. In fact, Betty has frequently taken advantage of his legs during prolonged Netflix sessions, but he hasn’t felt this giddy about it since the very first time it happened. He recalls that evening well, the memory preserved in the rose-tinted amber of nostalgia.

At some point, for a month or two in their freshman year at Riverdale High, there had been a sudden trend of overt PDA between the girls. As new friendships were being forged you’d find droves of young women in the lounge areas, sitting in each other’s laps, braiding each other’s hair, giving each other back rubs and in general driving the boys to distraction with how much _touching_ was going on.

And then the trend spread into semi-flirtatious inclusion of certain guys. Newly minted River Vixens lounged across the thighs of footballers otherwise so abundantly masculine that no one dared to question them getting in touch with their soft side, and select members of the swim team sported cutsey, ironic braids, courtesy of the volleyball girls.

Outside of school, even the lesser members of the high school herd were able to capitalize on the cuddling craze, especially at parties or during movie nights.

The first time it happened to Jughead, it wasn’t with Betty. Not exactly.

They were at some birthday party or other, and someone had put _Shutter Island_ on in the basement lounge. Inevitably, Jughead found his way down there with a bowl of chips, nodding politely at the two other outcasts already hunkered down in front of the TV. He’d been fully intent on whiling away an hour or two in relative peace, but for some inexplicable reason people kept drifting down the stairs and getting stuck until the sagging couch was so cramped that Jughead more or less voluntarily gave up his seat and slid down on the floor.

Not long after, Nancy Woods casually wedged herself between Lucas the Linebacker’s legs, and Kim Wong nestled up against Trev Brown in the space that Jughead had just vacated.

Then, to Jughead’s utter surprise, Lottie Little from his History class sat herself down in front of him, resting her back against his propped up legs as though she had mistaken him for a lounge chair. For a moment he’d been frozen stiff in disbelief, but Lottie didn’t seem to notice. She simply grabbed a handful of chips from his bowl and crammed them in her mouth and just like that, Jughead was part of the system.

Some time later, Betty came downstairs. The look she gave him wasn’t exactly shocked, but it somehow prompted him to shrug and shake his head in a silent ‘don’t ask me’. Betty quirked an eyebrow, then leaned down to whisper something in Lottie’s ear.

“Really?” Lottie hissed, eyes widening.

“I think so,” said Betty. “I’m not sure, but–”

She never got further than that before Lottie scrambled to her feet and raced up the stairs.

“Betty Cooper to the rescue,” said Betty, smiling at Jughead.

For a split second, Jughead wanted to say that it wasn’t precisely a situation he needed rescuing from, but then suddenly it was Betty leaning against his legs, reaching into his bowl of chips.

Later, when she wormed backwards until she's was resting her head on his chest, Lottie Little was all but forgotten, and Jughead was wondering vaguely how and when Betty might rescue him next.

Now she’s lying here, sprawled across his bed with her head in his lap, and Jughead has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling like an idiot.

“Oh, wow,” says Betty suddenly.

He looks up, and on the screen, Christian Slater is doing or saying something that's apparently noteworthy, but in all honesty, Jughead lost track of what was happening the moment Betty decided to use his thigh as a pillow.

She reaches back and pulls at the elastic that's holding her ponytail in place, and Jughead lets out a slow breath; there's something about Betty with her hair down that undoes him.

“Ouch,” she says, tugging at the hair tie.

The little metal clip has gotten tangled in her blonde tresses, and she yanks at the elastic, seemingly intent to get it loose even if it means pulling out some hair.

“Let me do it,” says Jughead, swatting her hand away.

Carefully, he picks at the hair tie until it’s free, one messy knot at a time. Once he’s done, he can’t help but let his hand linger for a few seconds, and on a whim he combs through Betty’s hair with his fingers as though he’s just making sure it’s all untangled.

“That feels good,” Betty murmurs.

Jughead’s heart does a little flip. Surely that’s an invitation to keep going. _Surely._ He strokes her hair again, and she hums contentedly.

He remembers Toledo, two summers ago, and his cousin Bingo's friend Sam. Sam with the bubblegum pink hair, the incense-infused bedroom, and the no-nonsense attitude, who flirted openly with Jughead over the weeks he spent there. She was confident and funny, and if it hadn't been for the very obvious crush Bingo had on Sam, they might have taken it further. Under his watchful eye, the closest they ever got to making out was the chill inducing head massage she gave Jughead after he casually mentioned having a bad night's sleep.

He’s not bold enough to try the same thing on Betty, but he takes a leaf or two out of Sam’s book, running his fingers along her temple and down behind her ear, pressing lightly where he reckons the sweet spots are. She rewards him with a soft sigh and turns her head a little, exposing more of her neck. While he continues his careful prodding and caressing, Jughead thanks his lucky star there’s a pillow in his lap; the little noises she keeps making are starting to have some certain unwelcome side-effects.

“Here,” Betty says, reaching up to tap herself on the nape of her neck.

Jughead obliges her, his pulse speeding up as he massages the smooth skin. The softness is deceptive though, because he can feel hard little lumps in the muscles underneath.

“A bit tense,” he comments, rubbing at the knots.

“Ugh, yeah,” she groans. “Not enough sleep lately. Thank God I’ve got a lie-in tomorrow.”

“It’s all right for some people,” Jughead says dryly.

Betty stiffens under his hands. “You’ve got an early start?” she asks.

“In hindsight, four 8am classes a week was a _terrible_ decision.”

She sits up and gives him a horrified look. “Jughead, I’m keeping you up,” she says, then scrambles over to her bag to fish out a toothbrush. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The honest answer would be that he vastly prefers her company to a good night’s sleep, but he grunts something inaudible in reply. While Betty gets ready in the tiny ensuite bathroom, Jughead takes Archie’s sheets out and makes the bed using his own spare set, then heads down to the communal showers to brush his teeth properly.

In the garish green-tinged light of the bathroom mirror he grimaces at the dark circles under his eyes and pulls his fingers through his hair in a hopeless quest of taming it. Thankfully, Betty knows him well enough to have seen his hair stand on end before, and anyway, it’s not like either eyes or hair are going to improve after a night of lying sleepless, knowing she’s right there in the room, six feet away.

He inspects his teeth in the mirror, then sighs. The chances of kissing Betty a second time - well, technically third time - seem remote. For her it probably wasn’t the mindblowing experience it was for him, and anyway if she’d wanted to kiss him again, she would have done so by now. He pauses, staring at his own reflection. Wouldn’t she? He breathes into his hand and smells his breath, then ruffles his hair again for good measure.

When he comes back to the room, Betty is standing uncertainly next to his bed. She’s wearing a light blue camisole and matching pyjama shorts that bring out the lingering summer tan of her legs, reminding Jughead of all the days at the beach he’s spent trying not to look at her. His gaze drifts aside out of habit but then she clears her throat, forcing him to focus on her again.

“I was wondering,” she says, and nervously pushes her hair behind her ear. It’s uncharacteristically messy, and for a brief second he imagines burying his fingers in it again, turning her face up to kiss her.

Betty waves her hand at Archie’s bed and goes on, “I don’t really know him, and it feels kind of weird, you know. Sleeping in his bed.”

“A valid concern,” says Jughead, snapping out of his daydream. “Which is why I changed the sheets while you were in the bathroom.”

“Oh.” Betty turns to look at the bed, and then laughs a short laugh. “You did, didn’t you? Thank you, but...still a bit weird.”

He frowns briefly. It’s not like Betty to fuss over stuff like this, but she’s looking at him expectantly, like she’s waiting for him to come up with a solution. “Okay…” he says slowly, puffing his cheeks out to think for a moment. “I guess you can take my bed. I don’t mind.”

Betty blinks, then smiles just a little too brightly. “Yeah!” she says cheerfully. “Yes. That would work.”

As she gets into his bed, and he climbs into Archie’s, something gnaws at Jughead. Some strange feeling sitting in his belly. It’s perfectly intangible, slipping away like a rainbow when you get too close, but it seems like the uncomfortable tension between them is back, and for the second time that night he wonders if he did something wrong.

 

* * *

 

That weekend, Betty goes to visit her sister Polly outside Greendale, and between Jughead joining the photography club and Veronica dragging Betty along to various sorority nights, they don’t see much of each other over the next couple of weeks. They send a few perfunctory texts, but with no further mention of the whole fake dating debacle, Jughead figures it was a weird blip on the radar; an embarrassing hiccup in their friendship best left to fizzle.

“Hey, Jughead,” says Archie one night just as they’ve turned the lights off. “Whatever happened with, uh, you know, Veronica’s friend. Betty?”

Jughead, who’s currently scrolling through Betty’s insta feed in the dark, taking great care not to accidentally like anything, promptly drops his phone on his face.

“Ouch,” he says, more to buy himself some time than anything else. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping Archie will miraculously just forget that he ever asked.

“You okay?”

“Yep,” says Jughead.

“Okay, so...Betty?”

Jughead sighs. “I thought she was going to tell you. Or Veronica. One of them.”

There’s a rustling sound as Archie sits up. “Tell me what?”

Jughead drags his hand down his face. “Okay, so here’s the thing…”

Somehow he manages to circumvent the whole thing where there was actually a hundred bucks at stake, making it seem like it was just a joke. Playing up the angle where Archie, who gets to date Veronica as a consequence, is actually the real winner here works wonders.

“So nothing happened that night?” Archie asks. “After football practice?”

“Of course not,” Jughead scoffs. “We’re just friends.”

“Huh,” says Archie. “You had me convinced, that’s for sure.”

“Coming from someone who thought chickpeas were made from chicken, that’s not saying a lot, Arch.”

“Please shut up about the goddamn chickpeas,” Archie groans.

Jughead grins to himself, but it’s a long while before he sleeps that night. He thinks about the kiss again, about her head in his lap, about her silky hair and the soft noises she made...and then it strikes him that maybe, just maybe, she’d been trying to get him to _share_ beds, not swap them.

“ _Shit_ ,” he whispers, eyes snapping open, and the indistinct, shadowy shape that is Archie’s bed seems to sneer back at him in the dark.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he picks up the courage to text Betty to suggest another study session. To his intense relief she immediately responds that she’s free that same afternoon. By now, the summer heat has faded, so the quad is not an option, but they manage to find a table in a secluded spot in the library. Soon, it’s littered with books, laptops, and Betty’s trusty thermos flask keeping their coffee hot.

“It feels like I haven’t seen you for ages,” Betty says in a quiet voice from the other side of the table.

Jughead glances up from his reading. “Hey, I’m not the one having shots races with my sisters in Delta Sigma Enigma.”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Have you been stalking my Instagram feed, Jughead Jones?”

He throws his hands up in defense. “I accidentally opened the app and you’re literally the only person I follow.” _A white lie and an uncomfortable truth to balance the books_.

“That was one night,” she says. “And for the record it’s Phi Sigma Rho.” She fiddles with the corner of her notepad. “I take it you’re not signing up for anything?”

“Not my scene. But in case you’re worried about my social life, I bumped into someone in the darkroom the other day, _and_ I’m thinking about joining the Fine Film club.”

“Fine Film,” Betty says thoughtfully. “That sounds interesting, actually. Unless you wanted it to be, you know, your thing,” she adds hurriedly.

“As much as watching French 1960’s moves all by my lonesome fits my general image, I absolutely wouldn’t mind some company,” says Jughead.

She smiles at him, a genuinely happy, almost shy smile, and he returns it in what he hopes is a flirty way. Even though it makes his heart race he holds her gaze and tries to seem confident.

“What?” she says with a giggle after a while.

“What?” he says stupidly.

Right, so he blew that.

Betty glances away, flustered. Then she gives him a sly look from underneath her lashes. “Okay, since you’re feeling so sociable, how about being my date to this party on Friday?”

He has half a dozen sardonic replies, sitting at the tip of his tongue, but he manages to bite them back. “What party?” he says.

When he heads back to his dorm that evening it’s dark, and a steady drizzle threatens to soak his beanie, but his heart is soaring high above the clouds, and with every splashing step against the sidewalk, he thinks _date, date, date_.

  



End file.
